


A New Tradition

by andrasste



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrasste/pseuds/andrasste
Summary: RRHolidayExchange: The Kirkwall Crew has its own Satinalia celebration.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Holiday at the Retreat





	A New Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tortuosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/gifts).



> This is late, and very much not my best work, and full of first (this is the first time I'm written ANY DA2 fic/characters!) but I do hope you enjoy it! I apologize for any butchering of your ship or your favorites.

Satinalia used to be Hawke’s favorite time of the year.

In Lothering, Umbralis was always cold. Occasionally it would snow – huge drifts of white piling on usually muddy streets, and strange quiet lay on the world. Peaceful in a way that Kirkwall never is, even in the polished, austere mansions of Hightown.

And what an adjustment that has been. Even in Lothering, their home was small and drafty. It was fitful, though, and full of the type of warmth that their new home in Hightown never seems to achieve, even when it’s stifling.

Hawke remembers her father’s smile, her brother’s stalwart attempt to hide his glee until Bethany dragged him into the snow. Bethany discreetly clearing the ice from the path to their well. Her mother’s laugh. She hasn’t heard it in a while, no matter how hard she tries.

But this isn’t Lothering, and their family is broken, and Satinalia isn’t what it used to be. Hawke considers passing Satinalia in the fashion of the last few years: a bottle of something that burns and waiting for the sun to set so it can be over.

But this year? This year, something is different. “Fuck it,” she mutters to herself. It is the day before Satinalia, and there is still time to make new memories in the only way she knows how.

~~

Hawke likes her friends for a lot of reasons, but today she appreciates their discretion. No one would dare describe them as such from the outside; particularly not the other patrons at the Hanged Man at this particular moment. Still, no one asks why she suddenly needs to do this, why she’s nauseatingly cheerful about it. No one bats an eyelash when she lays out the plan, though there is the expected amount of quiet bewilderment.

“So!” Hawke says, spreading her hands wide – she’s had three tankards of the bathwater that passes for ale here while she waited, and now things are slightly wobbly. “The critical components of Satinalia. A feast, revelry, gifts – masks are optional, and where are we going to find those at this hour?”

“Oh! There’s a shop in Lowtown—” Merrill begins, and Hawke claps her hands together happily.

“Oh good! Well, there, if you want masks you know where you can get them,” she continues, pleased that Merrill looks pleased. “So I say we split into groups to gather the food and alcohol. We need to cover a lot of ground before tomorrow. “

For a moment they only look at her, and then at each other.

“I don’t want to be _that guy_ ,” Varric says after a few beats of silence. “But I don’t think most of us have ever celebrated Satinalia.”

The muttered affirmations from the others confirm this. Aveline leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her impressive breastplate; Aveline herself looks less than impressed. “It’s just food, and drinking, and exchanging gifts – mostly for the children.”

“So what do you expect us to bring?” Anders asks, quietly – he’s drawn, and the dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. Hawke hasn’t taken him on any outings lately, and still, he finds ways to keep himself busy and sleepless.

“I—whatever it is we can get, I suppose. Everyone does it a little differently, so as long as it’s edible…” she trails off, concerned for a moment, self-conscious about her decision to drag them into it. Perhaps they would rather not acknowledge the holiday at all, or else spend it with others – and who is she to tell them otherwise?

Across the table, Isabela exchanges a look with Varric, so quickly Hawke thinks she might have imagined it. The next moment, the pirate queen stands, looming over them. “You heard the woman,” she says, and Hawke feels grateful, feels her ears heat and gives Isabela what she hopes is a grateful smile. “Hawke’s house, tomorrow, bring food and booze. Apparently we’re having a holiday.”

As they file out, Isabela throws an arm around Hawke’s shoulders, leaning close to her. “Well, sweet thing--” she drains the rest of the tankard she’s been working on, slamming it back onto the table with perhaps a bit more gusto than she would normally use, “— we’d best get started.”

The way she says it, it’s almost suggestive. Hawke feels her cheeks heat, flushing with a pleasant heat that has nothing to do with the swill she’s been downing for the last hour or so. She is still not immune to the way Isabela makes everything sound lewd, is all.

And she’s hardly had time to get used to anything Isabela does, after all. She’s been notoriously distant, keeping away unless she’s needed for an outing. Frustrating as it’s been after what they’ve shared, Hawke is very much pleased that Isabela seems to have had a change of heart.

~~

As it turns out, Kirkwall is aware that it’s nearly Satinalia. The shops in Hightown are closed, and it’s only just after midday. Hawke thought to try here first, but apparently Hightown shopkeepers can afford to lose the day’s business. There are only a few street vendors still open, and perusing their booths turn up nothing that could be useful.

She and Isabela wander from stall to stall, picking over the selection of trinkets and wares still available.

“Nothing here is remotely worth it,” Isabela mutters after their third stall of overpriced jewels and metals.

“We’re going to have to try Lowtown,” Hawke agrees, attempting not to let her disappointment sink into her expression. It’s her own fault for not orchestrating this sooner. Her mother might enjoy one of these pricey baubles, but she daren’t purchase one if they’re going to Lowtown anyway. “What do you think our contribution should be?”

“Drinks, obviously,” Isabela says, without a moment of hesitation. “I know an excellent place near the docks to pick up some of the _worst_ hard liquors you’ve ever tasted. Disgusting but effective.”

“We could choose a nice wine for dinner?”

Isabela snorts. “Where’s the fun in that?” she says, but she’s wearing her slow smirk again, a look that Hawke knows far too well. She has a plan, and the best thing to do when Isabela has a plan is to stay out of her way.

~~

Lowtown is as crowded as Hightown is deserted, with people swarming the open market stalls and flitting in and out of shops, holding packages and parcels close to their persons. The plan is simple enough; they’re here for gifts and perhaps a few things that don’t require much culinary skill to prepare, and then they’ll stop by the docks on the way home.

By the time they’ve made it properly into Lowtown, Hawke realizes that ‘simple’ is going to be entirely out of the question.

“I have no idea what to get anyone,” she mutters, looking over the wares on display through the press of the crowd. “After this long, you’d think I’d have some idea…”

Isabela shoulder her way through to stay close to Hawke, aware of her knives securely sheathed on her back. This crowd offers the perfect opportunity for trouble, and _that_ follows Hawke closer than she is now, pressed tight to her side as they navigate the street. “Don’t look at me – I was going to get everyone—”

“Merrill!”

“… not exactly what I had in mind.”

Hawke is already pushing her way through, making her way to a mostly deserted shop front tucked away off the street. Merrill is leaned down, closely observing a stand of ghastly masks stylized to look like various terrible creatures, but she turns as Hawke calls her name.

“Oh, hello Hawke,” she says, cheerful as always. “I decided to get a mask – and then perhaps to get a mask for everyone. Aren’t they cute?”

“Er,” Hawke says, staring down at the sharp teeth of what she can only assume is meant to be a varterral. “They’re certainly well-made.” She can’t imagine what any of the others would do with such a thing, but she hasn’t the heart to say it.

“I heard once that Satinalia is based in an old ritual holiday for the Old God of chaos,” Merrill continues, picking up one of the masks and turning it over in her hands. “I wonder what parts stuck.”

Isabela is keeping a close watch on the crowd, but she half-turns to answer. “I’ve heard some places in the Anderfels make the town fool leader for the day. I’m sure that counts.”

Hawke casts a dark glance in the direction of the Gallows, quick enough that Isabela only just catches it before she turns back around. “The town fool is already the leader here.”

“But can you imagine the Viscount’s face?” Merrill is mostly oblivious, and sometimes Hawke very much appreciates that. Whether she does it on purpose or not, it’s a nice change of pace.

“I try not to,” she says, taking a step back from the store’s display. “I think this is a great idea, Merrill.”

“Thank you!” Merrill says, halfway to distraction, pouring over the masks again like getting it right is of tantamount importance. Hawke takes her leave, wishing her luck as she goes, and she and Isabela continue through the market.

~~

The docks are beautiful after nightfall.

Tonight, nearly every available spot is taken. There are more ships here tonight than there have been in years, and the docks glow with the light of hundreds of lanterns reflected in the dark water of the harbor.

Next to her, Isabela is very still. Hawke watches her face, longing playing around the corners of her eyes, and feels an ache that she can’t put a name to.

“Isabela,” she begins, but Isabela clears her throat and looks away.

“How about those drinks?” she says, and she’s immediately back to her usual swagger, that far-off look in her eyes immediately forgotten.

“I heard they were absolutely vile,” Hawke says, taking it in stride. The least she can do for people who indulge her without pressing too hard is to do the same for them.

“Better than most of what they serve at the Hanged Man, though that isn’t exactly high praise.” Isabela seems minutely more relaxed here, strutting again instead of the quick, tighter steps she was taking in Hightown, and even in crowded Lowtown. Hawke realizes that her gaze is fixed at the place where her tall boots give way to flesh and must tear her eyes away before she’s caught out.

“Considering most everyone we know drinks almost exclusively at the Hanged Man, I’m sure that they’re going to love this.”

“They’d better. I’m spending far too much coin for them to turn their noses up.” Hawke has witnessed Isabela in her element before, and that’s very much where she is now. The docks aren’t crowded, but she weaves her way through the scattered sailors as easily as if they are moving aside exclusively for her.

Which, all things considered, they might be.

Isabela’s liquor store is tucked away at the dead-end of a grimy alley. It isn’t a shop, not really – she has to knock on the door before it swings open, and they are led into a small, abandoned apartment. There are dusty bottles on every available surface, stacked to the low ceiling.

The few labels that Hawke can read from the doorway are written in languages she can’t read – probably stolen goods, but that’s hardly a problem. She lingers in the doorway as Isabela deals with a man near the back of the room who looks exactly as Hawke would expect a black-market liquor dealer to look.

They leave several coins lighter, but with two crates full of mysterious alcohol.

“So, what is all of this?”

Isabela shrugs, and the motion causes the glass bottles to rattle against each other. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s strong, that’s all I know.”

Hawke gives the crate she’s carrying a cautious look but doesn’t pry further. It’s all sealed, at the very least, and Isabela knows what she’s doing.

It’s a slow trek back to Hightown.

~~

Before anyone arrives at Hawke’s manor, the pig does. The huge mountain of roasted meat is delivered by no less than three burly boys plucked right off the streets of Lowtown. Hawke greets them with perhaps an uncomfortable level of enthusiasm, and Bodahn directs them to put it on the table they’ve dragged into the living room. Hawke didn’t order it and she has no idea who did.

The chairs set around the table are mismatched, which seems apt. Hawke sets out the food she’s procured for the event – it won’t go with the ham, but it will work all the same. She pulls in a small side table and weighs it down with the alcohol that she and Isabela fetched yesterday.

They are absolutely having a holiday. Hawke pours herself a glass of something that looks vaguely like wine and waits for her friends to arrive.

By mid-afternoon, they are all present and accounted for. Hawke resolutely ignores the flush of pride and the prickle in her eyes that everyone showed up, regardless of what’s going on in their own lives. Even Aveline is here, bearing the gift of a freshly baked honey cake.

The pig, as it turns out, is Varric’s contribution. Once all the food is laid out (a motley assortment, from fruits Hawke has never seen before to stale bread, ridiculously large salads and no less than three different kinds of dried meats), it looks nothing like a ‘traditional’ Satinalia meal.

It does look like a feast, though, and Hawke is more than happy with it.

They pass around the bottles of Isabela’s alcohol as they nibble at the food offerings. Watching Merrill’s face as her palate is subjected to new forms of torture could be a sport if Hawke could get them all together more often.

It might be the longest Anders and Fenris have gone without disagreeing about something, and that alone is a Satinalia miracle. Fenris doesn’t rise to the bait when Anders presents him with his gift: a neatly-bound stack of pages that are the latest form of his manifesto. He only thanks him, a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth.

Merrill presents them with the terrifying masks from the Lowtown market, though no one is quite sure what they’re meant to be. Still, Hawke pulls hers down over her face and conducts business like that for at least half an hour, watching as they all exchange other small trinkets.

Varric gives them an open tab at the Hanged Man for the next week (which Hawke is sure he’s going to regret), and Anders presents Isabela with a pair of wooly pants that look as though they’ve seen better days.

Still, Isabela pulls them on over her boots almost entirely out of spite.

As the day wears on and they make their way through the bottles on the side table, things devolve quickly. From wild stories to Aveline’s red-face, stuttering embarrassment as she tries to keep her composure – and then someone is pulling out a deck of cards.

Soon, it’s difficult to remember who was given which gift as tokens and trinkets exchange hands as bets. Merrill seems to be making it her personal mission to win back her masks and is quite happily hoarding them.

It’s warm chaos, and probably the most at home Hawke has ever felt in her cavernous manor.

While everyone else is turning her living room into a gambling hall (which, in Hawke’s opinion, is a vast improvement), Hawke pulls Isabela away for a round, leading her into the library.

“I have a special gift for you,” she says, looking away – she’s self-conscious about it, worries that Isabela might be repulsed by the idea.

“Ooh, shall I keep the pants on?” 

Hawke flushes, ears heating, and turns to rummage in one of her storage chests for the gift. She’s had it for months, waiting for the right moment to present it. What better occasion than Satinalia? It seems too personal, though – she hopes desperately that Isabela doesn’t toss it back in her face. It doesn’t seem like she would, but Hawke always assumes the worst. It makes the best that much easier to deal with.

She finds it, heavy and too large, and turns, awkwardly holding it out for Isabela’s inspection.

It’s a bottle of whiskey, large and golden and entirely too expensive for Hawke’s own taste. Inside the bright amber liquid sits a delicate glass frigate, rigging lovingly rendered in thin wisps of transparent glass, glowing faintly as if held together by magic. It would have to be, as beautiful and intricate as it is.

When Hawke finally tears her eyes away, cautioning a glance at Isabela’s reaction, her heart sinks into her stomach. Isabela’s eyes (similar color to the alcohol, Hawke notes) are fixed on the bottle. Her mouth is slightly open, and that’s the only thing that betrays what she’s thinking.

Hawke fidgets. 

“Hawke,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound like her own. “It’s-- beautiful. But I can’t accept it.”

Hawke sets it down on the nearby table, deflating a bit. “Oh,” she says, and looks down at the slosh of the liquid. “I just thought of you when I saw it.” Her mind races, face burning. Why did she think this was a good idea? Of course, Isabela doesn’t—she wouldn’t—

“Hawke, it’s too much,” she explains after a moment, taking a tentative step towards the table. “It’s too expensive. Where would I put it?”

Hawke looks up at her, drumming her fingers nervously on the top of the table. The motion causes the liquid inside the bottle to shake a bit, causes the magical glow that this ship inside gives off to flicker a bit. “I was thinking you could keep it here, actually. Apparently, this is really good whiskey, so my grand plan was to get absolutely shitfaced first. Then I thought we could clean out the bottle and display it here.” There is a space set up specifically for it on the bookcase behind Isabela – the one where she stores the tawdry novels she finds and a half-dozen other small ships that Hawke has accumulated for her over the years.

“Oh,” Isabela says, short and simple. For a moment she looks conflicted, before she schools her face into an appropriate expression. She touches the bottle for a moment, fingers lingering over the glass – it’s unnaturally cold, as though the liquid inside has been magically chilled. “Hawke, I—”

For a moment, Hawke only watches her, hope raw in her chest. She realizes that this is no longer about glass ships and aged whiskey, the expense, or even the inherent intimacy in having Isabela’s possessions scattered around her home.

Isabela grins, a slow-spreading smile, and Hawke can’t help but return it. She watches Isabela for a long moment – and then Isabela points, suggesting that Hawke look up at the rafters stretching above them.

Hawke obliges, though there’s nothing there – she looks around for several long moments, wondering what she could mean, and when she looks down-

Isabela is very close, the dark whiskey color of her eyes glowing like the magic ship in the bottle, bright and mischievous and warm even as she kisses her. Hawke’s heart stutters, thundering to life, and she melts, pressing close as she can.

They’ve been here before, a long time ago. Somehow, this feels different, tempered by time or the atmosphere or something else altogether. They fit together differently, better, and though Hawke can’t explain it she isn’t trying too terribly hard to justify it.

For once, she lets it be.

“I thought I’d found mistletoe,” Isabela explains, somewhat breathlessly, as they part. Hawke only laughs, rests her forehead against Isabela’s shoulder and feels her tension bleeding away.

Sometime later, as she’s sipping a glass of magically chilled whiskey that’s old enough to taste like honey, Hawke decides that perhaps Satinalia could be her favorite time of year again. 


End file.
